


Shepard–Risset Glissando

by Nikoshinigami



Series: The Circle of Fifths [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Drug Use, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to Pantomime. Sherlock Holmes has a new name, a new job, a new life, and a new relationship with John Watson. In thanks to this, slowly but surely, he is losing his mind.</p><p>Edited by <a href="http://logicaldisaster.tumblr.com/">logicaldisaster</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授權翻譯】Circle of Fifths / Shepard–Risset Glissando 五度圈之四](https://archiveofourown.org/works/802827) by [Jawnlock123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jawnlock123/pseuds/Jawnlock123)



> This story takes place before, during and after Time Signature. While the main stories thus far have been about John coming to terms with his feelings for Sherlock, this story details Sherlock's path.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sigerson asked, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets as he stood still, bored, fresh from several hours of travel with many more to look forward to. His dress shirt stuck to the sweat on the small of his back, no undershirt worn to protect against perspiration seepage. He wasn't used to the climate in Thessaloniki. He'd have been better in short sleeves or at least sans the suit's jacket. Everyone else was wearing their suits, though. He supposed it was best to not stand out--not any more than he already did with his civilian slouch among the army stiff. Suits, styled hair and the occasional manicured hands could not hide years of strict physical and mental conditioning any more than Sigerson could naturally disguise his own sometimes lackadaisical approach to the former and emphatic originality in the last. With effort, yes, but not naturally. Suffice to say he didn't 'fit in'. It was far from hard for even the simple minded to deduce as much.

His 'boss' was already more than a little pissed off at the monumental favor he was being asked-slash-ordered to grant. One Special Agent James Sigerson, no training, no record of past experience, to be granted full service permissions effective immediately. The unprecedented request came without explanation. By order of the highest office, Control Officer Flowers was to assign newly appointed Agent Sigerson to any and all investigations dealing with James Moriarty's global syndicate and given every available resource for the coming tasks.

Sigerson couldn't help but smile at the sour expression on Flower's face. The deep wrinkles of his cheeks made for an impressive frown. He had two dogs, three mistresses, five kids, and popped the blue pill like Smarties despite his presumably undiagnosed heart condition.

Agent Church, not much older than Sigerson himself, stood staring at him as though he had asked if he liked staples in his eyelids. He was darkly tanned with sun-bleached hair. Being in the Mediterranean made deductions based on the tan much more difficult than back home. He took in every detail he could all the same, still pleased at the bits that even foreign travel could not disguise. "Excuse me?" the agent asked. His voice was a somewhat nasally tenor. Sigerson wondered if it had been caused by repetitive injury as the uneven bridge of his nose would suggest. Both being possibly attributed to nature, though, it was only as good as a guess.

"The violin. I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days; sometimes I don't shut up. I abhor tedium, and I'll likely call you John regardless of your real name. No offense meant; I don't really realize I'm doing it. Is your name John by chance?"

He squinted slightly, offering a response as almost another question. "Steven."

"Well, you'll still probably end up John. Easier for you to change than me, honestly."

"Is this guy serious?" Church looked to Control for a clue of some kind, expecting perhaps a big laugh and a round of drinks for pulling one over on him so succinctly. There were no decanters of brandy waiting to pour, however. A man of reasonable intelligence, Church seemed to catch on. He shook his head, trying to gain an inch on Sigerson which he allowed, height hardly an indicator of worth. "Look, I don't care who you think you are. My name's not John. It's Church. Is that too hard for you to remember? I'll help you out. After you've managed to get yourself killed with that haughty attitude of yours, it's the last place anyone is going to see your horse-face."

Sigerson couldn't help but laugh just slightly, unable to hide the smile at any rate. Threats generally made him smile, especially those from people who really had no idea who they were dealing with. He was used to taunts and jibes. School kids had done a better job at it than the security agent facing him. He put it down to a lack of creativity. A man who accepted orders and did things by the book, he deduced. Straight laced and probably vying for a top position in the organization. Doing well if he was the one Flowers had decided could complete his assignments unencumbered by Sigerson's presence. Sigerson was almost impressed in that case. Agent Church would be a fine ally in his overall mission.

"Something funny?" the irritated agent asked.

Sigerson shook his head, leaning back on his heels with a grin. "No, not at all. Church. Got it." Part of his brain urged him to stop there, but the part he usually listened to instead offered option number two: impress him. "Though I'm sure you've seen many more weddings than funerals in your experience. Is it just the two wives?" He watched the quick rise of panic in the other man's eyes before continuing. "Don't worry, I'm sure plenty of men in your position have home and away families. Quite the achievement to manage it all, really."

It took point-three seconds for Sigerson to realize his mistake. He was right about the wives, of that he had hardly a doubt, but men who prided themselves on discovering other people's secrets were extremely possessive of their own. He watched the surprise turn to anger like the flip of a switch in the brown—almost black—eyes and knew instantly he and this man were not going to be getting along well. The obvious conclusion Agent Church would be making pointed to Sigerson researching him. While in day-to-day life such a claim would have been ridiculous, in the line of work he now found himself in, it was perfectly sound reasoning and much harder to dismiss from paranoid minds. He counted himself lucky that at least in a business setting, there would probably not be punching involved.

Agent Church pressed in close, careful not to touch him but close enough to feel his spit as he spoke. "Who the fuck have you been talking to? Just who do you think you are?"

"Stand down, Church. Leave it." Flowers advised. He shot Sigerson a disapproving stare as he addressed his man. "I know he comes across as an asshole but I'm told his particular skill could prove invaluable. You've been on the Moriarty trail a couple times and that's where they want him."

"I'm not working with this guy." Church scraped his eyes down the length of him, judging Sigerson by the width of his chest and the bulk of his arms. It was irritating the way he overlooked what he'd already proven of his skills just to unfairly judge him based on mass alone.

Sigerson scowled slightly at his deduction being dismissed already in their conversation. That was never going to do. "The tan line on your left ring finger," he exclaimed. He waited for both of them to grant him their attention, confused as it was. He pointed to the agent's left hand. "A ring hardly ever stays in just the same place so it's expected for the tan line to be larger than the ring itself but only by a couple millimeters if sized correctly which yours is. However, the tan line is nearly five or more millimeters wider than the ring you are currently wearing and could therefore only be made by a different, wider band. Why would a man exchange rings on his left ring finger, though? Removal, fine, but an exchange? You're clearly back from assignment in tropical or desert climate, not your honeymoon, so a tan from an engagement ring or school ring would have faded were it the case. Only remaining explanation is that you removed the wedding band you're wearing now while you were away and replaced it with another. Two wedding bands, two wives." He didn't bother carrying that through with a thorough deduction of what that meant as far as Church as a person was concerned. A man who had two wedding rings felt guilty enough about his indiscretion not to use the same ring in each match, preferring to remain faithful to each wife alone rather than to one wife and a mistress. Church was an interesting man from what Sigerson had seen—not impressive but interesting at least.

The quiet stare of both men was far from the praise he had hoped for. Agent Church looked down at his hand and the pale band of flesh surrounding his ring then balled his fist and let it drop to his side. "I'm getting a plane to Ankara tomorrow. I don't have time for this." He looked to Control, jaw set tight. "If no one has specifically stated he needs to follow me around, why not try Cook? I'm not following Moriarty's syndicate in Turkey anyway."

Flowers nodded, eyes drifting back to Sigerson with his brow still knit with intrigue. "Right, well... eventually, I expect you'll have no choice in the matter. But I'll try Cook. No need to upset your current plans this late in the game."

The relief was as palpable as the anxiousness had been. Church nodded, inclining his head. "If that's all then."

Flowers nodded and the man left without so much as a glance in Sigerson's direction, his whole demeanor stiff and defensive as he escaped the room and situation both.

"What the fuck was that?"

Sigerson shrugged. "Just making friends."

The Control Officer shook his head, gesturing to the door as he rounded his desk and took a seat. "Not many people know about Church's situation and we're talking about people who learn other people's secrets for a living. You got all that from a tan line?"

Sigerson smiled, hearing at last a bit of approval—and from his 'boss' no less. "It's what I do. I observe. Even the smallest details about a person or a place can leave clear evidence to any manner of information which can often prove useful. You, for instance, should probably lay off the Viagra."

One day it was going to soak in that not everyone was interested in knowing they were just as transparent and readable to Sigerson as everyone else was. Flowers immediately took offense, his aged face crinkling in displeasure. "Word of advice? Keep your observations to yourself when you're not on the field. I don't have time for you to piss off all of my Agents until we find someone who doesn't mind so much." He gestured to a chair seated in the far corner as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just go sit down and shut up. I've got to see where I can squeeze you in now."

Sigerson did as asked, finding the chair to be rather comfortable and a pleasant change from the worn airplane seating he'd been trapped in most of the morning. Annoyed, irritated, pissed or not, no one thought him a total burden anymore. He much preferred to be grudgingly respected at the very least.

Just a few months, though. A few months and everything would be sorted. A few months and he wouldn't have to deal with the military or government agencies so intimately ever again. None of this bureaucracy mattered. Only the work mattered. And eventually the work would bring him back to John.

+++

Weeks ran long. Work kept Sigerson busy. The travel was the hardest part when there was nothing to do but wait and study schematics and files. He checked John's blog religiously. No updates. Instead he hacked into his bank account and dissected his shopping by applying known prices and tax to the totals given in summary. Lots of beer and bread it seemed. Lots of take-away for one. He was back in therapy. John's expenses were as close to seeing him again, to speaking with him, as Sigerson could come to while traveling alone through Europe, the Middle East, and currently Asia. It paled in comparison to the actual experience of conversing with the man. He couldn't recreate the atmosphere of the flat or the temperament of his friend while he observed the price of butter chicken from Salaam Namaste. He had been around him so long he could recreate almost any setting with John in it, get just the right number of wrinkles and the correct angle of his hairline without having to give each detail individual thought. He could put John in the train car with him but somehow he could not see John in their flat. The concept of his own presence removed was too alien to know what his absence left behind. He tried once to imagine what someone missing him looked like and could see only the graveyard in his mind's eye. John was forever in that graveyard when Sigerson only wanted to imagine him home. He kept him in the train car instead, though the level of interaction he'd grown accustomed to was missing.

Outside Russia was streaming by, all tall trees and fields. His own reflection was still alien enough to pass for just another fading piece of scenery. Short hair made his face long and pointed with ornamental glasses for that true Clark Kent feel. He had maintained a certain amount of anonymity in his professional life and so long as he did not wear any hats, his features were just different enough to go unremarked upon. His appearance had always been an afterthought, something he made a conscious decision on at one point in his life with the expectations to not deviate until age made necessity of change. Life had stepped in where age had not. He sometimes missed the fluff of his longer hair when agitation made him rake his hands through it. He couldn't physically shake people, things and places out of his head through the ruffle of short tufts. The hair, like his reflection, would feel normal enough eventually. The world past the strange face was infinity more interesting anyway.

In his mind he detailed the specifics of the plant life in the region, explaining how trace amounts of coal could still be found in the areas surrounding train lines and what that meant for criminal deductions. Even if he didn't say his name, he always addressed John with such things. Sometimes he said them out loud. It almost always took him a minute to remember he was not there when no commentary followed. He was alone, as he had always been in the past, as he was familiar and comfortable with. The silence before hadn't been caused by the absence of something, though. This time there was as much a loss of himself as there was one of a friend. He had an internet-enabled phone and a laptop as his companions with every impulsive part of his mind wanting to make the most of it—to text, to write, to call. Instead he was looking at banking records and working out the current cost of milk to deduce whether or not John often had company over to help him go through the carton before it expired.

It was a strange obsession, the 'x-raying a girl's property' kind of strange that in some people's mind meant more than curiosity. He had compassion for his old companion, though. He felt sentiment towards him. As far as he was concerned, he loved him. Most other words were too specific and at least love was ambiguous enough to bend to his exact meaning. John Watson was the driving force that made him want to try harder in all aspects of his life. He made him care more and take the risks of showing it. He made him do these things without meaning to or trying to, an inspiration through just existing. He was his conductor of light.

Would eight pounds twenty be a six pack plus a small bag of crisps or proper veggies and perhaps steak? Products sold by weight were the weak point to his deductions. He'd have asked John himself but unfortunately he seemed to exist only as the audience to his every train of thought. There was madness there; an honest threat of insanity in the obsession of what could not be known no matter how much he tried to observe. The John sitting across from him seemed to agree. He would have, anyway, were he real.

+++

 

August 24, 2012. Message Sent to admin@johnwatsonblog.co.uk @ 19:08

 

+++

Agent Church's second wife, an army surgeon stationed in Afghanistan, was named Margaret. There was no trick to learning that one so much as being present when the post arrived. They weren't partners, no, Church would have none of that, but as often happened there was simply a great deal to do in similar locations. Church was tailing a suspected bomber with dubious connections to anything Moriarty while Sigerson had the pleasure of listening to recordings in the hotel room from a tapped phone-line in the same building. That they were at the same hotel was purely 'coincidental'. Sigerson pointing out their rooms were next to each other with a connecting door was met with a shoulder shrug and passed off as even more coincidence. Church was most certainly not that stupid. There were only three possible explanations: 1. Church had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt (doubtful), 2. Church had been instructed to keep an eye on him as the senior agent (plausible), or 3. Church wanted to get a bit of his own back after their rather disastrous initial meeting (very plausible). Sigerson decided it was perhaps a mix of the latter two and left his connecting door locked. The lock was broken by the next day. Though probably not meant to imply permission, Sigerson took it to mean 'help yourself' and made himself at home in both rooms.

Church found him smoking by the open window of his room when he came back, managing a scowl of disapproval. "Is there a reason you're in here? Are you being murdered? Is there a dead body in your room?"

Sigerson shrugged. "Just felt like a change of scenery." He took a deep drag then let out the smoke like dragon breath. "Letter from your wife on the table. Congratulations."

The agent looked livid as he crossed to the table, finding the letter intact. He held it up to the light, testing the transparency of the paper. "You reading my mail now?"

"Bit obvious I haven't. Didn't have to. If it was bad news, Control would have sent it. For anyone to allow on-the-job correspondence, it must be good news. Good news from your wife that is important enough to write to you personally really can only be of a singular nature. It's her first child but I imagine you have at least a small family with wife number one."

Church's dark eyes burned with momentary fire before he pressed the letter back on the table. "You think you're so clever. You think you can just see through everything, don't you?"

"Not everything," he admitted, looking at the cherry of his cigarette as it drew closer to the filter.

"So, what, you're just waiting here for me to get back so you can show off?"

"No. I'm sitting here waiting for you to get back so that you won't have to think of some stupid excuse to come into my room to talk." He put on a small, snarky smile as he uncrossed his legs and scooted closer to the edge of his seat. "I did mean it though. Congratulations. I'm not intentionally antagonistic all the time."

Church rolled his eyes, sitting on the corner of his bed with a huff. He leaned down and untied his shoelaces, kicking the worn leather shoes across the room. "You know, I hear a lot about you from the others. Cook hates your guts, Hamilton said he'd rather crawl through the trenches than be stuck with you again and I believe you almost got Scotts killed, wasn't it?"

Sigerson shrugged. Scotts had hardly been his fault; the man was an idiot.

"Although," Church started, shaking his head with amusement. "I hear from Brooks that you fainted when you two were in Iraq."

"I didn't _faint_. It was hot and I became momentarily overwhelmed by heat exhaustion."

"He said you didn't eat the whole trip, hardly slept, and ended up unconscious a few minutes before the raid."

Sigerson watched his smile, calculating the conversation. He hadn't been all that far off in his initial assumptions. Church had indeed been asked to watch over him but not as a more experienced agent. He put his cigarette out on the table, unconcerned with the mark it left. "What did Control tell you? Keep an eye on me? Make sure I eat? Make sure I sleep? Is that why I'm stuck in a hotel room listening to phones now instead of out on the field?"

His babysitter laughed. Asked to spy on the spy and loving every minute of it. "Flowers thinks you're going to burn yourself out at the rate you're going. Wants you to slow down before you get yourself or someone else killed."

His fist struck the table hard, nearly overturning it. Church's surprise was unsurprising as he stared at the before unseen rage that Sigerson had done well to keep in check amongst the other idiots he'd been put beside. This was beyond his ability to simply swallow like a bitter pill. "This is unacceptable. This is not what I was assigned to the SIS for. I have important work to do!"

"And I have to report to Flowers by the end of the week with my professional assessment as to whether you are fit to continue."

"He has his orders!"

"Yes, and we're both very interested in knowing why that is." He shifted on his mattress, sliding closer with years of training in interrogation rising to the surface. "Why are you here, James? Why are you trying to single-handedly pursue Morarty's syndicate? What does Moriarty mean to you?"

Sigerson laughed, shaking his head. "Never from my lips," he said. He stood, pacing slightly before turning to Church once more. "What will it take for you to tell Flowers I'm fine? I need another assignment. I need to be kept active. Tell me what I have to do."

"Tell me what you're doing here."

"Not an option." He ran his fingers through his hair, irritated all over again at how short the strands were, how he couldn't get a good grasp by which to pull. He rounded on the other agent, pointing to him with a steadiness he wasn't sure he felt. "Look.... I can promise you to be more careful where others are concerned. But if I'm pulled off this, I have no option but to kill myself. And I don't want to do that."

Church leaned back, laughing. "Kill yourself? Oh, god, are you seriously holding yourself hostage? How old are you?"

"This isn't a laughing matter!" Sigerson leaned over him, uncomfortably close as the other man leaned back to where he could see him without his eyes crossing. "The situation I find myself in is both complex and delicate. The only reason I'm alive is so that I can take down Moriarty's web. Failing to do that, I must die or else forfeit the lives of three innocent people. You may think me cold but for now I have a reason to live and if you take this from me I will have a reason to die."

Church watched him, neither of them speaking for a moment as Sigerson slowly pulled away, hands flexing at his sides. Church had a big heart, big enough for two wives, and certainly appealing to it was the better of his options than trying to doubt his professional judgment. The quiet was heavy and still. Eventually the blonde agent cleared his throat, unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt.

"I'll tell Flowers... you were ill. But you're fine now."

Sigerson let out a tired breath, his chest tight from the cigarette but his nerves begging for another.

Church rubbed at his neck, tipping it left and right to work out the kinks. "You know Scotts, Hamilton and Cook all can't stand you but they all said you were kind of amazing too. So just... try harder, okay? Interpersonal skills are part of the job requirements so pretend at least that you have some idea what those are."

He nodded, backing up towards the connecting doors with none of the confidence he'd had when he entered. He said nothing more as he closed them both behind him, leaning his head against the wall while fear shook him. Clumsy. Stupid. Arrogant. Blind. Proud—so fucking _proud_. His brother had gotten him this chance but it was up to him to make the most of it. And he was sabotaging himself. If he couldn't try harder than this, what was the point in risking it all?

He took three, long, steadying breaths as he poured the assurance back into himself. He could do this. It was already taking longer than he thought it would, the stress of it perhaps getting to him more than he had thought it might, but he could do this. No matter how long it took, he could manage. He just needed to slow down a little.

Sigerson sat down at his computer, his e-mail client up and waiting with a brand new message highlighted for his immediate attention. An e-mail from John. He sat and opened it without ceremony, scanning it first as he always did for that word that had once been his name just to see John say it again. It was missing, though. John didn't write about him so much anymore. John wrote about other things. He tried not to be disappointed. His best friend was writing to him and that in itself was wonderful. He scrolled back up to the top to read it in earnest.

That word—that name—was a forbidden one anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

From: admin@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
To: sigerson.j@hotmail.com  
Sent: December 24 '12 16:34  
Subject: Happy Christmas

James,

Sorry to hear you'll still be away for the holidays. Know you were hoping to get back before all this. Maybe next year? I'm sure your bosses can't be such pricks as to keep you away from home two Christmases in a row.

I'm staying with my parents this year. I hadn't thought I would but I woke up one morning and walked out into the flat and just thought... I needed to be somewhere else. Just smelling Mrs. Hudson's baking, standing there with the frost on the windows, it was too much. Christmas shopping was a nightmare this year too. Kept thinking about when he told Father Christmas he wanted a murder and got us escorted home by the police. He could seriously over-complicate or ruin anything. I know I was stern with him at the time and thought I'd never been so publicly humiliated but seeing the jolly fat man this year, I just wanted to... I just wanted Christmas to be over. I don't associate Sherlock with Christmas and honestly the only Christmas we spent together was the worst Christmas I'd ever spent complete with my girlfriend dumping me and the girl I thought fancied him 'dying'. He was horrible to a mutual friend, I had to go through the whole flat looking for drugs, and he ignored me the rest of the night. I mean, in all honestly, worst Christmas ever. And I bloody want him here for this one.

I'm going to go away on holiday for a good bit of January. I just can't do it yet. His birthday is on the 6th. The first time we met was the 29th. Our first case together was the 30th. We didn't do anything for his birthday last year because the sod never told me when it was. So I promised him we'd do something this year. I'll stay long enough to leave him flowers, I think, but past that I just need to be away from London for a while. Ella says it's the first year that's the hardest and I don't doubt that. It'd be easier if I moved house but then I'd sort of lose Mrs. Hudson too and I need someone else close who really knew him. It's hell being reminded of him every bloody day but Christ I don't want to forget. 

God, I'm sorry. I hate unloading on you like this, especially at Christmas. I know you say you don't mind but at some point I've got to just get over it all. Any suggestions for a good place to holiday? A beach would be nice. Someplace sunny where the women are friendly. Or not. I don't mind the challenge ;) I think just a place away from cities and where I probably won't hear a police siren and can just lose myself for a while would be exactly what the doctor ordered. Let me know if you can think of a place. If you happen to be near said place, maybe we can meet up for drinks? I think it'd be great fun to meet you in person.

Happy Christmas, James. And Happy New Year too if I don't hear back from you before then. Here's to a better one. I'm sort of resolved to work harder to move past all this. You buy into any of that resolution stuff? I know it's pretty dumb but it's tradition. Last year I watched Sherlock play his violin at the start of the new year. I resolved to help him understand the good of human emotions. And he killed himself six months later. So, job well done. Think it's better I stay to more selfish pursuits. Not that I blame myself or that I think it wasn't worth it to see him open up but I miss the fuck out of him. Every day. And I'm doing it again so I'm gonna sign off and hope you don't read this till after you've enjoyed your own Christmas in whatever part of the globe you're in now. 

-John

~~My Dear John,~~  
I'm sorry it's taking so long. I intended to be gone for only a few months. It's looking like a year now. Maybe longer. Please do me a small favor: never stop missing me. Give me something to come home to when this is all over. Otherwise, it will have been for nothing. Let me ruin your holidays and make you wary of anniversaries. Let me haunt you until this is over. Please. Keep your thoughts on me even when your eyes can no longer follow. Do this for me and I will grant your wish.  
Very Sincerely Yours,  
########

+++

Sigerson felt like an idiot in his suit. It had once been nicely tailored, fit to his frame by a skilled tradesmen who enjoyed the employ of a trust fund eccentric. It was one of the few vanities he afforded for himself in his previous life. A well-fitted suit was much easier to get around in, much less in the way when jumping over railings or into skips. Now it hung from him in uncomfortable ways, too big from nearly every seam. He didn't want the bother of buying new ones nor of seeing a tailor to take his current attire in. The last thing he wanted was a man with measuring tape near him. Tangible proof was irritating enough, he didn't need hard figures.

He scheduled a lunch date with himself for after his meeting with the new Control. He'd been meaning to check out some of the local restaurants in Thessaloniki for some time anyway. Meetings with Control in the past seemed to always put an end to his appetite, though. He didn't hold out much higher hopes for this case. Flowers's heart attack had apparently been sudden and unexpected. While he took no joy in being right, he did feel a little vindicated in having warned the man. His replacement was much younger and of better health with years of experience, some very high-profile villains owing to him their death or incarceration, and a tan line on his left ring finger that still did not match his ring.

It was as much a surprise as Flowers' cause of death. It was a little less welcome. 

Control Officer Church smiled from the other side of the desk, looking as though he'd moved in quite comfortably. Photos of the new baby were on his desk but no photographs of either wife. He looked like an idiot when he smiled like a fool. He was still far from Sigerson's favorite person but they got along well enough anyway.

"Well, well, well," the man said, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head. He was enjoying this. "Agent _Sigerson_. How are you doing? Greece treating you well?"

There was something about the way he said his name that made Sigerson wary. He tried not to react, though his face was often a traitor. "Did you call me off the field just to ask how I liked Greece, sir?"

Church shook his head, smiling ear to ear. "Just wanted to go over the Moriarty details with you. You've been on the case now for... eighteen months? How time flies." He gestured to the seat across from him as he sat up, pulling forward a press board file which he opened and thumbed through. "In the past eighteen months you've successfully located twenty-seven of thirty-two assigned operatives in Moriarty's residual syndicate. Assassins, terrorists, skilled craftsmen and laborers, operations chiefs... out of the entire Firm, you're second to none in successful mission completion."

"...Thank you?" It was hard to keep the question out of the statement, his eyes narrowing at the acknowledgement. He took a seat, not even having to unbutton his jacket as he sank into the comfortable leather. 

Church nodded, flipping more pages end over end as he perused his file. "No, please, you deserve a great deal of credit. I worked the Moriarty ring for years, I know how slippery they can all be. Spent months trying to get some of these guys which you seemed to be able to track down in... weeks? Days some of these. Really very impressive."

"I'm not a double agent if that's what you're implying." Sigerson steepled his fingers against his chin, leaning forward in his seat. "It's not inside information. I'm just better in my methods than you are with yours. No offense--no one is as good as me. As my file so graciously proves."

"Oh, no. I know you're no double agent. Before we get to that, though, let's go over what else you excel at." His mocking tone did not foreshadow further praise. "You've bribed and blackmailed four doctors into falsifying your medical examinations, were found in the possession of cocaine and paraphernalia, are on record as having fainted four times in the field and have had seventeen men die on your team, including a fellow agent."

Sigerson shrugged, fingertips tapping in agitation. "There are always casualties in this line of work. Just because you don't agree with the medical examiner doesn't mean I bribed him, possession does not amount to usage and honestly I don't see how any of that is any of your business. I get the job done; you said so yourself."

"It is my business when you are obviously on the decline." Church put the file down with a slap of finality against the desk, the red press board sounding like a flip-flop against a heel. "We've talked about this before, James. You told the drug screener that if he made you give a sample, you'd tell his wife about the affair he was having with the urinalysis's assistant."

"Obviously should have included the fact that our deal should remain a secret."

"Obviously." He leaned back in his chair, the new leather squeaking far more loudly than the new metal fittings. Out with the old, in with the new. "James, for the life of me, I don't see how Flowers turned a blind eye to these sorts of things for so long. Or, I should say, I _didn't_ see. The position of Control comes with a hefty amount of information. You know what I'm getting at, don't you, James?"

Sigerson felt his throat constrict slightly. "No, sir," he lied. "I have no idea."

"We both know you're not an idiot," Church said.

"Too bad we can't say the same thing about you." Sigerson rose from his seat, pressing the folds from his jacket as he did so. "Whatever you think you're getting at, drop it. We've had this discussion before. My mission is greater than your jurisdiction and your job, as a fellow agent or as Control, is simply to assist and stay out of my way. You've read the memo, I'm sure. I think you can probably find it in my file if it somehow missed your attention."

Church looked up at him, no intention to rise. He laced his fingers over his stomach as he considered him. 

Several levels up from Church were very knowledgeable, well- informed men who had tackled the difficult task of keeping photographs of the world's only consulting detective from spreading too far, making search engines like Google find nothing, not erasing but suppressing. Once on the internet, always on the internet after all. He had never been an international phenomenon but Church's career investment had been in Moriarty's ring. Sigerson wasn't surprised, simply annoyed. He did not trust the man who now held a considerable amount of power over him regardless of special permissions and allowances. 

Church breathed out deep, shaking his head. "You know, you could be a great agent if you tried to care about more than just the missions. All the skill and training mean nothing if you can't value human life. Caring sets us apart from the people we're trying to take down."

"Wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"The motivation behind most acts of terrorism is caring a great deal about an idea or ideal. That's what makes them so dangerous. You can reason with an intellectual defense of evil but you cannot reason with an emotional investment," Sigerson's face had forgotten how to smile, instead remaining flat and expressionless as he reigned down in his most condescending tone. "Caring is in fact a problem we face every day and is the enemy of our pursuits on a whole."

Church scoffed. "Are you heartless by nature?"

"Yes."

"I believe it." He leaned forward, taking back the file and folding it closed. "You know, you give me shit about living two lives but I'm not the only one in this room people could say that about."

Sigerson's eyes narrowed, his fingers twitching at the very obvious clue. No, he wasn't joking. He knew. "Shut up."

"Excuse me? I'm not some agent you ca—"

"Shut up, _Sir_."

Church smirked, eyes hateful. "You know, when I found out who you really are, I was impressed. Genuinely," he said, skirting closer and closer to the full admission. Even Control's office was not secure enough for such a conversation. Cameras, wire taps, anything and everything could be there to expose the lie to all the wrong people who had found their way inside the way Sigerson had done and still did to their own organizations.

Genuinely impressed met genuinely surprised when Sigerson pulled out his gun from his left breast holster and aimed it at Control's head. If words didn't work, then surely actions would. The blonde man's face drew long with dread, the smart part of him knowledgeable enough to read his intent.

"You're not untouchable, you know," he warned. "I could have you jailed for this."  
"Who else knows?"

There was only a moment's slight hesitation before Control submitted to jaw clenched admission. "No one," he said. "Independent research. Fair use of the new perks of my position."

Sigerson nodded, thumb resting on the safety. "Keep it that way," he ordered.

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm pointing a gun at you and offering an ultimatum. Do try harder to follow."

Church scoffed once more, his default expression one of exasperated amusement when dealing with the agent. "So I keep who you are a secret or you shoot me? You know the kind of trouble you'll be in if you do?"

"At the point that I'm exposed, I'll be a man with nothing left to lose. Believe me, I'm capable of much more than just this the day that happens."

"Who do you think is in charge here?"

"Generally the man with the gun is. I'm open to your interpretation, though."

The long, cold glare from the other man made it very clear exactly what his interpretation was. He glowered, hands gripping the arm rest of his new chair with white-knuckled tension. "Get out of my office," he spat.

"With pleasure."

Sigerson tucked the gun into its holster and left quickly, spine stapled straight as he waited with every step for someone to try and stop him. Prison didn't scare him but lost time did. He'd managed nearly two years on other people's general ignorance and selective curiosity. Two years hadn't been enough, though. He worked hard to keep his rage wrangled as he walked out of the building a very paranoid man.

Church had him. He had his career, his friend's lives, everything sitting in a file on his desk or tucked away in his head just waiting to undo two long years of tireless pursuits. Church had all the power and worst of all he knew it. No tripping of the silent alarm, no calling for assistance, no movement at all but to argue with him under the barrel of a gun. Church was more clever and crafty than Sigerson had planned for. For all the stupid that registered on the surface there was a man deserving of his status underneath--a master of manipulation and deception. He was playing him but Sigerson had very little time to devote to figuring out how or why.

He made his travel arrangements as quickly as possible, giving no further thought to Control or his lunch plans. He had no appetite anyway. He was just moving far too slow.

+++

From: jwatson@charingcross.co.uk  
To: sigerson.j@ymail.com  
Sent: December 22 '13 08:34  
Subject: Happy Christmas!  


James, 

Another year almost over. Doesn't feel like it's been that long, does it? I can't believe they're really keeping you away for a second year in a row. You have any vacation time coming up? I'm serious, next time you're in London, let's do drinks. I owe you a round and you sure as hell deserve it. 

Spending Christmas at home this year. Mary's really got the place decked out. I think she's using the holiday as an excuse to rummage through my stuff and clean house. I sort of didn't realize how much clutter I had. You get used to it, you know? Feels good to be rid of it, though. She and Mrs. Hudson must have taken six or so boxes of stuff out of the den alone. It's the season for giving and all but I'm not sure the poor have much need for the kinds of stuff they donated. 

I got Mary a diamond necklace for Christmas. I'm sort of nervous about that. It wasn't stupid expensive or anything but it's jewelry and it's diamonds and women can sort of read too far into things, you know? She means the world to me but I'm not really looking for that sort of commitment just now. She's really changed my life for the better, though. I just wanted to show her how much I appreciate everything she's done and when we were Christmas shopping together, she was sort of obvious about how much she liked this necklace. So I got it for her. Nice playing Father Christmas for a change. She lost her family so I guess I feel it's sort of up to me to make the most of the holiday for her. We're going ice skating tonight after dinner. Hopefully I don't bust my arse literally in trying to figuratively do so to make this Christmas the best. I think it will be, though. I've got great company this time around.

Sorry to gush when you're stuck on the road. I'm sure your friends and family are still thinking of you and looking forward to your return. Next year you can spend the holiday together I'm sure. 

Long day ahead of me. If you don't hear back from me for a bit, sorry. I'm not really sure what Mary's and my plans are going to be for the rest of this year.

Stay safe,  
-John

+++

It had been four months since any mention of John's ex-flatmate in his e-mails. It had been eight since the mention had been in any way meaningful. The confessions of longing and loneliness weren't coming back. John was happy again. John was going to be fine.

John had gotten over him.

Sigerson didn't think much at the time of the overdose. Secure the tourniquet, find a vein, search for a place that didn't hurt. It wasn't attempted suicide, it was the pursuit of relief. 

It'd taken almost two years of falling but he finally hit the pavement. He made a pretty splash, all broken pieces and bruised patches of pin-pricked flesh. This time there was no John to hold his hand and beg for his life. 

This time no one cared.


	3. Chapter 3

Of the things Sigerson did not like about being in hospital, being strapped to his bed was among the top. Flight risk. Suicide watch. Whatever reasons they gave for the cloth fastenings didn't matter. That they left him trapped in every sense of the word was the only detail that amounted to anything of consequence. 

"Can't say I'm surprised," Church said, sitting in the chair at Sigerson's side. It wasn't standard procedure for Control to visit agents in hospital but his was the only name anyone with the SIS had bothered to put down on his contact information. Kidney failure, arrhythmia, dangerously underweight, drug overdose with signs of repetitive usage. Sigerson had been dying. Calling Church made sense. Church actually taking the time out of his schedule to come did not, however. "I am surprised your brother's not here."

Sigerson shook his head, flexing his hands against the restraints. "I'm not his brother," he replied. He eyed the flow of clear liquids as they dripped down plastic tubes into his veins. He couldn't feel it but he imagined he could. He'd certainly felt the dialysis. 

"You admit you know what I'm talking about?"

"My next stop from this bed is the morgue slab so go ahead and celebrate being right. Well done; aren't you clever."

Church smirked just slightly, leaning back in his seat. "Didn't think you were such a pessimist. From what they tell me, you're capable of making a full recovery. You'll be up and being a pain in my side in a few weeks, I'm sure."

Sigerson said nothing, eyes lost in unseen shadows. 

They did not speak but the room was far from silent with all the beeps and hisses such rooms were built to hold. Sigerson had been in hospital before from gunshot wounds and general scrapes, tears and bruises. He'd been treated many times for wounds he'd sustained at other people's hands. It was fascinating in a way how much damage he could do to himself with very little effort. No effort at all, truly. The shot of cocaine was just the tip of the iceberg, an unlikely lifesaver in a way as it got him under doctors' care who could see what his bad habits had done to the wasting body he'd dragged from mission to mission. The missions didn't matter anymore, though. Nothing mattered, least of all the flesh-covered bones being nourished further from death.

"You know... you're not what I expected from the man who took down Jim Moriarty."

"Oh, don't worry. I disappoint a lot of people that way. Not really the hero type." 

"More the damsel in distress." Church took out his phone, browsing through webpages by the motions of his fingers. "Self-rescuing, I'll give you that much. But you're pretty shit at it all the same. You know I can't put you back on the field after this. Psychological testing alone is going to keep you an in-or-out patient for weeks. Under normal circumstances, you'd be discharged completely for being an obvious nutter. But I have orders that say you have to be allowed to continue so... why?"

"That's a very broad question."

"Fine. Why are you killing yourself?"

Sigerson scowled at the wording but did not bother with correcting it. There had never been a conscious decision on his part to do so. Not until the overdose. Everything else was just from laziness or being far too busy with everything else he had to do. Explaining why he was like that was difficult and pointless. He just was. He'd never been on a case that lasted years before and hadn't the frame of mind to adjust his habits to fit with the new needs. It was him being an idiot plain and simple. Subconsciously, perhaps, he was smarter than that but the thought that he'd been setting up his own demise from the start was chilling to consider.

He'd been silent too long. Church sighed loudly, shaking his head at his phone. "Alright. What about this John Watson guy then? We confiscated your laptop, obviously. E-mail, internet searches, creepy stuff. Your old partner, wasn't he? Got the feeling he wasn't in on the secret. I should have you incarcerated for those e-mails but my hands are about as tied as yours are. So indulge me a little. What are you playing at?" 

Sigerson looked up at the white board: Wednesday, January 8th. "Can I borrow your phone?" he asked.

"No. You owe me some answers."

"And I can best answer them with the use of your phone." He pulled at the right strap against his wrist. "And this undone."

Control eyed him suspiciously but undid the strap and pressed his phone into his palm. "This better be good."

Sigerson nodded and quickly, having done so many times before on his own phone, logged in to John's bank account. There weren't many charges there at the start of a new statement. John had been out to eat several times and to Tesco once on the 3rd. He'd taken a cab twice, most of his travel done through the tube after that it seemed. He handed the phone back to Church who eyed the expenses with confusion.

"What is this supposed to be?"

"Evidence." Sherlock smiled to hide the cringe of sadness. "John stocked up on groceries on the Friday. He spent more than usual, probably on grooming supplies and other less frequent sundries as he had a date the following night—easily deduced by the restaurant he charged at and the price he paid. The difference in cab fare shows he got a cab from home and proceeded to pick her up at her place before the date but returned to her place instead of going back to his own home after. A very good weekend by most accounts. He spent the rest of his weekend rather quietly, a few meals at home, some alone and some with company. Normal weekend, normal week."

Church followed along the screen at hand, his brows pinched across his forehead. "Okay, that's... you realize you're completely obsessed, right? That's pretty clever and all but absolutely ridiculous. What does it even matter?"

Sigerson shrugged. "My birthday was Monday. And you can't get to the graveyard by tube." He picked at the sticky tape trapping the needle in the back of his hand. "Mondays are busy things for people with average jobs. You dread them all weekend and there's always something waiting to get started. After a nice weekend full of banging one's girlfriend, little dates that never really meant anything before anyway sort of... get forgotten even more easily." 

Church looked at him, considering with great difficulty by the way his face remained squished and sour. "So you're upset because this John Watson guy forgot to buy you flowers?"

"Don't be pedantic. It's an empty grave; I don't care what else they lay to rot there. All this happened after I was admitted. Just… further evidence to what I already know. John was... my home. And with every passing month I see more and more clearly that I have no home to return to anymore. He doesn't need me. It's come to the point where I serve him better dead because I'm nothing but a risk to him alive." Sigerson let his head lean back into the pillow, staring up at the boring, white ceiling. "And I hate this job. And I hate you and the other people I'm forced to work with. And I could really care less about the remaining operatives of Moriarty's web. Everything that once made it all worth it... is okay now with the way I left things. I have nothing. I don't even have my own name anymore."

Church rose from his chair, looking somewhat pissed. It was a surprise, really. Sigerson was under the impression the fact that he rather didn't like the man was common enough knowledge. Church was the nosy, self-righteous kind of guy who liked to pretend his life was fine and normal and everyone else were the ones with problems. He was opinionated and irritating. Sigerson was quite sure he'd told him all of that to his face at least once.

Church took his freed wrist and pinned it back to the bed as he secured the cloth restraint once more. Sigerson gave a weak jerk against the hold but it was cursory at best. If Control thought a little slip of cloth was going to instill a will to live in him, he was vastly overestimating the power of cotton.

"You still talk to him," Church said. His voice was strangely low and gruff sounding. "You still have him as you are now just... not as you were. What's wrong with just being James Sigerson? You've got e-mails going back over a year so... just be content with that. You're lucky you get a second chance at life."

Sigerson chuckled, unable to help it. Counseling from a man with one life and two loves to a man with one love and two lives. Surely he wouldn't be the only person to find that funny. "I don't want to live, Steve. Look at me. Listen to me. I'm not being irrational or emotional. I'm coming at this from a logical perspective based on facts and evidence which have all been taken into serious consideration. I chose to live and I should be allowed to recant that decision."

"Well, you don't." Church leaned down in his face, still half glaring as though somehow this was personal. "The Sherlock Holmes who bested Jim Moriarty is sure as hell not going to take his own damn life. Get yourself murdered like a normal human being in this line of work. Die with some fucking dignity at least."

Sigerson froze, positively _froze_ as the forbidden name clawed at him, stealing his own breath. "What did you call me?" he asked, too preoccupied to feel shame at the shallow, wavering sound of his own voice.

Church's features soften only slightly as he bent his head towards his ear, the second utterance given the care it deserved with the weight of responsibility the name carried. "Sherlock Holmes," he said in an almost whisper. "Your name is Sherlock."

+++

The moment John Watson killed for him, Sherlock became hopelessly fascinated by the invalided army doctor. Who was this man who had known him for so short a time and would choose him, with no clear understanding of the situation and with the utmost faith in his innocence, to be worthy of committing murder for? Most people would not have interpreted the scene as that of peril. Just two men, facing each other in an empty college, some uncertain _something_ pinched between their fingers but hardly as obviously dangerous as a gun or a knife. All he had was faith in Sherlock; faith in everything Sherlock had said and done up to that point. John Watson shot an unarmed man dead with no proof of his guilt for no reason other than that he believed in Sherlock. It was more than fascinating, it was _amazing_. It was completely and utterly unheard of. It was certifiable. John's kind of madness hit him like a drug, taking the sober right out of him with a never before felt high that sustained. It's what friendship felt like, he assumed. The potency of it didn't make him regret the years he'd spent without the sensation so much as it made him crave the years to come which would be saturated in it. For perhaps the first time in his adult life, he felt a joy towards something other than work or music. John Watson was an anomaly that warranted further observation. Living together, he had every opportunity.

The experiments and the violin sent all previous flatmates running. John learned very quickly how to accept both. No matter what he brought home, no matter where he left it, no matter what hours of the night he kept him up, Sherlock never feared of John's leaving. It seemed... impossible more than unlikely. He belonged there. He was part of it; 'it' being the work, 'it' being his home. 'It', somehow, becoming himself. 

It took only three months; three months and a hell of a lot of Semtex. It was the betrayal first, the sting that ached like nothing had ever managed to hurt him before. Some of it was pride, the feeling that he had missed every clue that would have told him John was Moriarty. After that, Sherlock had no rational concept of his emotions other than the most base of descriptions: relief, fear, anxiety, more fear, and then shock. The fascinating man he'd been entranced with who had in a day decided he was worth killing for was willing—after truly knowing his terrible faults and extremes—to die for him. No man or woman in existence would have believed it possible. Not even Sherlock's own brother would deem his own life of lesser enough importance to throw away on his behalf. But John, the man who stayed, would.

The heart he'd never had was born that night at the pool in a memory that smelled of chlorine and sweat and tasted of mildew. He fell in love in a public swimming pool under the devil's sparkling eyes and Cheshire grin. Moriarty had always been a catalyst for change.

It didn't bother him that John had girlfriends so long as he remained most important. Jealousy was something he could cope with but envy was not. He didn't envy them their place in his bed but rather relished in their envy of him being the one John rolled out of it for and ran to. It was fun, in all honesty. He hadn't meant to run off Sarah but discovering the power he held in John's relationships was perhaps the worst revelation to hit their own since the arrival of feelings. John expected better of Sherlock which was his own fault. Had he ever inquired among the right sort of people, he'd have known Sherlock had never been good at sharing his things and often took them apart and broke them irreparably in his eagerness to understand how they worked. John was a man and not a toy, but some principles carried through. Sherlock hardly trusted himself with his own heart; he had no interest in securing that of another. No, not just simply another's—John's. Only John. The most selfless thing he ever did was acknowledge his own faults and concede to a one-sided love affair. It was exceedingly easy. Sherlock could be as open and as obvious as he knew or cared to be and John would see nothing but a friend, the depths of his heart believed to run shallow, a trench where Sherlock could spy a canyon. John never saw what he was afraid to see; a man of rational thought that often made faulty generalizations. Every time he told people they weren't dating, that they weren't together, Sherlock heard him reinforcing the denial. It was fine so long as it was invisible and John could pretend nothing was there. Sherlock meant more to John than life—if that wasn't love of a sort then there was at least some solace in knowing Sherlock's might not feel love either.

Killing for someone was easy, really. It happened all the time. It was called 'murder' and Sherlock had studied it well. Dying for someone was much, much more difficult. There were, in fact, very few opportunities to do so in a normal life and as such Sherlock hadn't really foreseen an opportunity to answer the question John had posed in his blog. Would Sherlock Holmes die for John Watson? No; emphatically no. They could never enjoy each other's company again if he did and what sort of existence was that to save John for? They were meant to be together, even if only as friends, and Sherlock knew more than enough about chemistry to know the forces it would take to truly separate bonded pairs was enough to destroy both parts in the process.

Pretending to be dead was a kind of dying all the same. There was still a gravestone that said Sherlock Holmes and there was still a John Watson devastated and alone. The death of Sherlock Holmes would not go unavenged or unanswered for, though. For John. All things for John.

"There's still time to change your mind," his brother had said. Sitting in his high-backed chair in the privacy of his own home, Mycroft had looked twice as old as his years counted him. "Go to America. Canada. Live out the rest of your life there. You've won, Sherlock. Retire and be happy you're alive."

Sherlock, standing at the mantle, had shaken his head with a ruffle of curls, his body lean and fit because John fed him and made him take care. "John wants me to come back. _I_ want to come back. This is my life and I have every right to claim it."

Mycroft sighed, swirling the hard liquor in his glass. "At least heed these words of advice then. Your time-frame is not inexhaustible. There will come a point in time where your coming back causes more trouble and pain than it does good. A few months, a year or more for the devoted—John, I should say. After that, well...." He drank down till the glass was empty. Guilt was a hard void to fill. "He'll always want you back, Sherlock. Always. But he will not always need you to come back. And it's up to you to know when that time comes. And to do yourself and the world a favor and stay dead."

Sherlock smiled, full of assurance and unshakable confidence. "It won't come to that. I'll have that code in a few months’ time. The assassins will be called off and I'll be back home before the last night of the proms."

"Sherlock—"

"I know what I'm doing, Mycroft. Just get me my papers and an assignment and I'll be out of your hair and on my way."

Mycroft put his mouth behind steepled fingers, eyes closed as he breathed deeply. "Please promise me you will try and move on. John will. We all will. Mourn this life if you can and try and make a new one. Otherwise—"

"Otherwise, I'll be the only one left who misses Sherlock Holmes." He smiled still as he paced the rug. He jolted at the sound of his brother's glass crashing to the floor.

"You stupid, naive child! You have no idea the pain you are setting yourself up for. You're smarter than this, _be_ smarter than this!" Mycroft glared, face red from rage. "You have _got_ to let this life go or it will kill you."

Sherlock scowled, his mood no longer elevated enough to find his brother's company acceptable. "Thirty years, Mycroft. That's how long it took to find one person who did more than simply tolerate me. And I will not wait thirty more to find another." He strode to the door. He wouldn't sleep but there were surely better rooms to haunt now that his brother was taking his sibling role too seriously once again. "I'm keeping this life, Mycroft. I _will_ be back for everything I left behind. Trust me. I know precisely what I'm doing."

He had closed the doors behind him with a great slam of finality.

Sherlock felt himself a tremendous fool as he lay strapped to a hospital bed with machines prolonging his life, thousands of miles away from anyone who might spare a thought for a dead man.


	4. Chapter 4

  
"If I put you back on the Moriarty case, you're going to work yourself into the grave."

"Probably. And it's not like you can stop me."

"What if I made you a better offer? Skills like yours would be very beneficial in a less dangerous line of work. Come work in my office. Be my advisor. If anyone can spot a double agent, it's you."

"How does advising you target Moriarty's ring?" 

"It doesn't. I'm asking you to move on, James. Sherlock. I'm offering you a real job, not this suicide mission. It means staying Sigerson but... well, what other options do you have right now? Your methods are completely unorthodox but maybe it's what we need."

"Nine to five, Monday through Friday, same routine and schedule, year in and year out?"

"It's a life, James, and a far better one than you’re living right now. You died to save your friends so what’s the trouble living to protect not only them but their country and way of life? You could make a difference. Finding kidnapped people and stolen items, disguising yourself from the enemy, subterfuge and deception; you could be doing exactly what you were doing before only on so much larger a scale. Or you can lay here and die. I wonder how much those friends of yours would approve if they ever found out Sherlock Holmes didn’t die thanks to Moriarty, he died strung out on drugs while his body ate itself to nothing."

"You’re asking me to give up."

“No, James, I’m telling you _not_ to.”

+-+

From: admin@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
To: sigerson.j@ymail.com  
Sent: January 29 '13 19:31  
Subject: You Okay?

James,

Haven't heard from you. Just your customary 'you okay?' e-mail when you go silent on me. Hope everything's fine. Drop me a text if you get a chance. Just to say you're okay, you know? Thanks.

Not your fault but this is kind of when I need you the most. Ella griefs me, Mary just tries to comfort and understand but you just get it and I need that. Because I thought I was doing really well but I'm not. I had a nice long chat with the fucking skull for fuck's sake. 

You ever feel like shit and you have no idea why? I woke up crying this morning. No nightmare that I could remember, no pain, just... crying. And I don't really. Cry, I mean. I just don't. But I sorted myself out and got to work and that was where I saw the calendar on my desk and it's like I just sort of... I don't know. My body remembered before my head did. It's the three year anniversary of me meeting Sherlock Holmes and I woke up crying for no other possible reason. I think this year is worse than last year in some ways. Because I'm trying to not dwell on the past but I keep bringing the past back to me.

Did I tell you what I did on his birthday? I woke up, made myself some coffee for work, and before I knew it I'd made two cups. One with sugar. I don't take sugar, I don't even keep it out. I ended up drinking the damn coffee anyway because it was like he had made it for me and that's beyond stupid to think he's haunting me or something and that he's here trying to tell me something, but god that second coffee made my chest hurt and I'm not talking about heart burn. I was shaking and it wasn't the caffeine. I had to call in sick to work and just... sit there. I listened to the classical music station all day and changed the rules in the Cluedo book so Mr. Body could be a suspect. And I looked through the old newspaper clippings. I didn't cry at all, I just felt tired. Saving my tears for today, I guess. Which is just as ridiculous as thinking a dead man likes to pretend he still doesn't know how I take my coffee.

I thought last year was bad but this year is just... scary. It's genuinely frightening how even when I'm not thinking about him, part of me is this aware that something important is gone. Worst part is that I'm almost glad. Because it's impossible for me to forget the day he died but the days I'd rather remember because they were good times pass by so easily.

I really need to take you out for a pint. Or pay you for listening to this bullshit. Ella says it's good for me to write these things down but it feels like wasted effort if no one reads it and I can't put these things in a public place thanks to my old blog. And I don't want Mary to get the wrong idea. About Sherlock and me. Because lord know it's hard enough to explain the loss without trying to work in the fact that I have spontaneous, nocturnal crying on the anniversary of the day we met. Even I think that sounds pretty gay.

Anyway, I haven’t heard from you since Christmas and a month is a pretty long time for you to go black on me. Hope you had a good holiday. Again, text me when you get the chance. You don't have to write back anything long or even respond to anything I wrote. Just let me know you're still out there. 

-John

 

From: sigerson.j@ymail.com  
To: admin@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
Sent: February 2 '13 19:31  
Subject: RE:You Okay?

John,

Sorry. I've been in hospital. Bit of a coma over the holidays but it's not as though I had plans anyway. I'm fine now. I'm in a kind of clinic still but I'll be back on both feet shortly.

There's no such thing as ghosts, John. Sherlock isn't still with you. He's gone. It's up to personal opinion as to whether that means he's watching over you or simply vanished from existence. Either way, he's not making you coffee. The Sherlock I know from your blog and your e-mails would have more important things to do than make you make him a coffee he can't drink. It's just you not letting go. Believe me when I say I know what that is like.

I've been offered a new job. It would mean never going home, which popular opinion says is the best for my health and wellbeing. Doing what is best for me is not often my preoccupation. I would rather drag this whole world to hell to get my way. I was never very good at making the world see things my way, though. And it has been impressed upon me that continuing to try will likely kill me before I can succeed. I believe I'm going to take it. Never going to get to have that pint with you, I'm afraid. Life of a secret agent; some secrets can only be kept when you say goodbye to everything. Even this will have to end eventually, but not yet. One thing at a time.

What I said before about personal opinion, about what happens to someone after death, I didn't mean to come across as unfeeling. My own opinion, I suppose, is that Sherlock will always be watching over you. That's the sort of thing selfish people do, isn't it; kill themselves then refuse to let go of the things that made them truly happy? It sounds right to me. 

I hope Mary liked her Christmas present. I hope you got something you wanted as well. I hope she knows how lucky she is and if not, there's a man in the secret service just waiting for an excuse to abuse his power. That's a promise.

Yours,  
James

+++

Sigerson hated autumn in Hungary. It was beautiful in ways he found hard to describe but still somehow irritated him just by virtue of being beautiful. Red like blood, yellow like decay, green like mold, orange like... orange was fine. Orange he liked—at least until he could think of something macabre. The cold hardly bothered him either, little grimaces and complaints uttered simply to annoy Church who dragged him around like a pet performing tricks to every top secret meeting he attended. It was... fun. In many ways it truly was very much like his work before, when he'd been Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective rather than James Sigerson, Control's sniffer-dog. He preferred being his own boss but there was some pay off at least in the thrill of the games though mild in comparison. Murder was so much more interesting than war.

He tugged at his shirt sleeves where they poked out from under his suit jacket, irritated at his cleaner for having starched his cuffs as stiffly as his collar. The whole thing was itchy, irritating the sensitive skin of his elbow pit where healing scabs were easily picked off as he scratched. He felt uncomfortable and hadn't the care not to let it show, much to Church's continued annoyance as they stood at the parting of his guests.

"What sort of disguise do I need to outfit you in to make you pretend to be an adult for even an hour?" he asked, perhaps hoping the slight would put him in his place.

Sigerson really couldn't have cared less. "He's telling the truth and was in fact working all night on the documents you asked for. Not a spy—one of your more dedicated employees, actually. Obvious, dull, boring. Can I go now?"

"You cannot. Sit down." Church sank into his own chair, swiveling with the inertia of his fall as he waited for James to move away from the window. "I need to ask you something."

"Then ask. We're alone."

"I'd prefer you to sit."

"And I'd prefer to stand." He looked at his boss through the window's reflection, being contrary just for fun though the fact that they both knew it stole a bit of the enjoyment.

Church rubbed at his temples all the same. "Never meet your heroes," he muttered, not for the first time. He leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh and resigned himself to the disparity. "I want to show you something but I need you to promise me something first.”

This piqued Sigerson’s interest. “You said I couldn’t have the Moran files,” he said, already several steps forward in the conversation through observation alone.

“Yes, I did. So I take it your acquiring them was an act of willful insubordination then.”

“You and I both know those cases better than anyone. I should be consulted at the very least.”

“I agree,” Church said with a slight scowl. “Which is why I’m consulting you. I figure if you know where Moran is and still haven’t taken off on your own to face him, maybe you’ve got it through your thick skull by now that it’s not worth the risk. I still want you to promise me I’m right, though.”

Sigerson gestured flippantly, eyes keen in their observation of the black birds lurking in the foliage. “Knowing where he is does me little good. I’m hardly going to walk straight in to Moran’s base of operations and introduce myself. I’m not actively trying to get myself killed here, I just have no real care to live. There’s a difference.”

Church said nothing, watching him with growing disapproval. Sigerson pretended not to notice. It had been more than half a year since he’d been hospitalized and things since his release had been stable rather than improving. He could tell in the way Church looked at him on most days that he had expected better just as he could tell in John’s e-mails that he was starting to consider marriage. There was no room for him in that life anymore and hope only in the doctor’s happiness. His acceptance of that fact made him bitter, often bringing back memories of cold nights under a duvet with Mycroft sitting at his side, tome in hand of useless stories meant to put impressionable children to sleep. Fairytales; Grimm, of course, but more often the Danish author’s parables. Sherlock had felt a kinship with the Ugly Duckling and always thought Marina a fool. To now be foam along the waves, he wondered if he should find a way to tell Mycroft there was no such thing as swans. Surely, by now, he knew. 

Church let out a long sigh, bring out a file from his briefcase. “You know what? Fuck it. You’re always going to do exactly what you want to do so just look at this damn code and tell me what you think.” He snapped the black case closed, the file shoved to the desk corner closest to Sigerson. “It was part of the data we recovered off that hit man’s laptop you helped track down in Poland. Old e-mail file from an unknown source, encoded in a way none of our systems recognizes. What’s your insight?”

Sigerson walked over, taking the file and giving the front page at first a cursory stare before he felt his pulse pick up pace against his throat.

  
#3/4DDDBABGADCBADCBAGECBAGFEDEF

The silence was telling.

“You know what it means, don’t you.”

Sigerson nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

“It’s what you’ve been looking for, isn’t it.”

Another nod, hands careful to place the file back on the desk, fingertips lingering on the pressboard trappings.

Church watched him, hackles raised just slightly at the small world that belonged to Moriarty and Holmes that he could see but never understand. “How can you be sure?” he asked. “How can you be sure it’s not a code for some other project?”

Sigerson smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes pulling with genuine amusement. “Because it’s addressed to me, Steven,” he said but did not explain. He caressed the file gently. “Oh-ho, Jim. We planned out everything, didn’t we? And here I thought the game was over.”

“James?”

Sherlock turned his back to him, his steps hurried as he crossed to the door. “I’m sorry, Control, James has to retire now but we’d both appreciate your silence for another month at least.”

“James!” 

“It’s alright, Steven,” he called over his shoulder, looking back without a falter to his step. His face felt unused to smiling but the stretch felt good. “This isn’t giving up; this is seeing it through to the end. We’ll be in touch!” he said, though he doubted he would or that he even intended to try. 

The game wasn’t over. 

And it was his move.


End file.
